Fenn passed the order on to the waiter, a little crestfallen.
“I don’t often drink anything myself,” he said, “but this seemed to me to be something of an occasion.”
“You have some news, then?”
“Not at all. I meant dining with you.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, that?” she murmured. “That is simply a matter of routine. I thought you had some news, or some work.”
“Isn’t it possible, Miss Abbeway,” he pleaded, “that we might have some interests outside our work?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” she answered, with an insolence which was above his head.
“There is no reason why we shouldn’t have,” he persisted.
“You must tell me your tastes,” she suggested. “Are you fond of grand opera, for instance? I adore it. ‘Parsifal’—‘The Ring’?”